Amos, the epic Homeric poetry was greatly admired. I was going to post a note of appreciation when I suddenly realized I have no plinths. The state of utter plinthlessness briefly drove all other considerations from my consciousness, but I am now somewhat recovered.

Rap, I do have a number of volutes. Unfortunately, they are attached to musical instruments and I'm not going to break them off.

Oh, pah! Pfui. I will send my poetry to one of Little Hawk's imaginary women of breeding from now on. I am sure it will be admired for its profundity, sensitivity, delicacy of form, clarity of scansion and subtlety of rhyming scheme. It is modeled on the long-esteemed Lawrence Welk school of poetry, you know...

I've been using flightaware.com to track BBW's progress. She has landed in Dakar, Senegal and takes off shortly for Johannesburg, a full seven hours away. Africa is considerably larger than most people over here think of it as being.

Amos is going to a bog party in Las Vegas? Don't bog parties require lots of water? Isn't Las Vegas in the desert where water costs, like, $3.50 a gallon? Shouldn't it be a dust party? I'm confused. Mom's confused. Even Gluon's confused and he, by virtue of his ability to fold the space-time continuum, has already been to the bog party and says a good time was/will be had by all, the bog-in-the-desert paradox notwithstanding..

'Bog' is an old term for the jakes, the WC, the stable Tom Crapper's mount, where you keep the porcelain throne. it's the necessary room, the powder room, the backhouse, the latrine.

For some reason Amos is going to a party in a Las Vegas outhouse. I suppose it's a multi-holer since there are usually more than a few people at a party, unless it's one of mine. In any case, he's sure to get stinkin'.

So this Las Vegas bog party isn't about four-wheel-drive trucks and mud, but about seeing how many people can be crammed into the men's room on the main casino floor at the Bellagio? Sounds like fun. I'm sure a Bellagio men's room is nicer than my house (unless some drunk Texan has recently barfed on the floor).

That's my take on it. Except it probably not at one of those fancy places with running water. Amos isn't one of the fancy-shancy types. He's tough -- for example, his toilet paper is never greater than 100 grit.

It's not generally known how tough Amos is. These days you see a mild-mannered guy playing a guitar or lute and singing gentle love ballads. But this is the same man who once in a bar in Papeetee, when confronted by a mean drunk with a large revolver, bit the barrel closed just as the gun was fired and then spit the bullet into the drunk's eye. He used to get his snap, crackle, and pop for breakfast by eating a bowl of blasting caps. He still sobers up on raw alcohol. Years ago, while backpacking in the Alps, a local alpenhornist mocked Amos's abilities and Amos doubled the 'range' of an alpenhorn using a cheap tin whistle; this also caused a rockslide which blocked a vital road but Amos had it clear in minutes. His parents learned not to send him for milk as he would return with a cow under each arm. He was not permitted to enlist in the Marines, the Foreign Legion, or Spetsnaz because 'he plays too rough.' Remember these things the next time you decide to mock him for blowing a note or missing a word in a song and be glad he controls his temper by blackjacking himself before he gets angry.

I have been giving this "bog party" thing a bit of consideration, and have determined that there is a possibility "bog" is a typo. Amos could have simply meant a "big party". Or perhaps it's a "beg party" in which the participants dress shabbily and stand on Fremont Street, tin cups in hand, begging for spare change from high rollers. Or maybe a "bug party", wherein a boxful of poisonous insects is released into a roomful of blindfolded, but otherwise naked, partygoers. But I think it's probable he meant a "bag party" in which everyone removes their clothes, places large brown paper bags over their heads, and proceeds to have anonymous sexual relations with as many other participants, of either sex, as possible. Or maybe he meant all of the above. It is, after all, Las Vegas.

He may have gotten the constant wrong and it could be a hog party. Or a nog or vog party -- the latter is a term used in Hawai'i for a fog containing volcanic gases. Or the word might not be English, as Amos is fluent in many languages including Midland Welsh, Yukanese, and Ambrolic.

ALas, it was the simplest of typos--the "o" and the "i" being right beside each other. It was a bIg party, and the only bogs involved were tiled, stainless, and softly lit high-roller bathrooms. A good time was had by all.

I am now home and tomorrow my beloved companion Maggie Darlin' Dogg will be returned to me. Which I look forward to.

Meanwhile, I am weary from five hours' driving straight down the 15/215 from Vegas and am going to nap, so there.

I drove not only myself, but two local friends who were also attending. So the time passed in pleasant conversation. But your suggestions are greatly appreciated; wish I had thought of them earlier! A chopper would have really done the trick!

Determining how often a married man has been wrong in the last 50 years is a simple process. Assuming that he has been wrong 100% of the time during married years, simply divide the number of those years by 50. For example, I have been married 42 of the last 50 years, so I have been wrong 84% of the time. The last time I was right was in 1987, during the interregnum between my first and second marriages.

While it is true that god-knows-who created "asshole", it was actually created by god-knows-whom. How one person could create something while that same thing was created by someone else is a paradox akin to one hand ceasing to clap and beginning to beat the shit out of a hubless wheel with a tire iron.

Yes, although those old time Greeks were soooo uptight they only created tautology. They also created sorites, or polysyllogisms, of which the term sowrongies is used for the opposite. The opposite of polysyllogism is, of course, monosyllogism. Both polysyllogism and monosyllogism must be differentiated from monosyllabic and polysyllabic, which refer to operands within the mathematics of the quantum universe, although they can refer to (for example) a polysyllogistic monosyllable therein. I would provide examples of both polysyllogistic and monosyllogistic monosyllable and polysyllables save that they are so eensy-weensy tiny you couldn't see them (which makes it difficult for those working in the field of eensy-weensy tiny things).

Speaking of slackologies and the nonsensical, boil 1/3# of spaghetti until Al's dented, eh? Chuck in a can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup (I know, I know but I bought two cans in a BOGOF fer shits and giggles) and then squeeze in, to taste (I know) chicken Brovil from one of them there half gallon Costco riggings. Gross? Yeah. Mess up my guts tomorrow and clock out my BP? Yeah. But, dammit, every half dozen years, I gots ta have me GRUEL! no matter how cruel. I will post again when I am able.

While in reformatory school, they fed us a disgusting gruel comprised of Campbell's mushroom soup and ground up bits of Hula Hoop and chunks of rotten green bologna that you would not want to get on ya and moldy Quaker instant grits that would give you the runny shits. It looked like a huge blob of jizm and you would die of botulism if you should deign to eat the mess. I'll stop here. You make up the rest.

Especially the anadiplosis-driven polysyllogisms, which never fail to bemuse. The Delmann tribe is offended by what I wrote about their favorite son, but at least I haven't tread on the toeses of the turrible Doelman's, or thier viperous cousins, the Booquemeisters.

It's a good thing Shane isn't around here anymore, because you people would have driven him mad with all those big words. He hates people who use big words like "polysyllogism", because he isn't sure whether or not he's being insulted when they do.

Shane's mother, Polly Sylle O'Gysum, was unfortunately a crack user and vulnerable to extreme mood swings. She died young, as a result of chemical abuse and the stress of poverty and lack of education. She was buried in a pauper's grave in a field kept by the Humane Society just outside of Pedant, where she had fled to live with her grammar.p1

Well, that explains half or less of Shame. I understand that his father was "just passing through" and since he couldn't pay was forced to "labor" for his fun by a couple of rather large gentlemen from Detroit.

Of course, if Mr. Shame had gone beyond the third grade he'd know big words. Words like cat, dog, car. Even words like balloon, head, and Shame. He could converse in complete sentences such as "See Jane run" and "Shame drunk." Instead he just sits there are grunts as if he were constipated -- which mentally he is.

Once there was a fellow named Gnu Like a beast that lives in a zoo, And when he'd had a few-ew Gnu could talk himself blue

'Cause he had bullshit He was full of it He had genuine dyed-in-the-wool shit So any time you're doubtin' That what he's spoutin' Is really wisdom or wit... Oops! You're right! It's just a pile of bullshit!

Once there was a fellow named Rap Lived on a golf course near a sand trap Everyone knew that Rap chap Talked a load of bullcrap

'Cause he had bullshit He was full of it He had genuine dyed-in-the-wool shit So any time you're doubtin' That what he's spoutin' Is really wisdom or wit... Oops! You're right! It's just a pile of bullshit!

Was a fellow named Little Hawk His hallucinations could talk Sometimes so much that you'd squawk "Stuff their mouths with a sock!"

But he had bullshit He was full of it He had genuine dyed-in-the-wool shit So any time you're doubtin' That what he's spoutin' Is really wisdom or wit... Oops! You're right! It's just a pile of bullshit!

Then there is a fellow named Amos In some circles he is quite famous Uses big words to shame us But we know what his game is

It's all bullshit He is full of it It's just genuine dyed-in-the-wool shit So any time you're doubtin' That what he's spoutin' Is really wisdom or wit... Oops! You're right! It's just a pile of bullshit!

And this guy named Bee-dubya-ell Lives down south where 'gators do dwell Tall tales he likes to tell-el But you can tell by the smell

That they're bullshit He's so full of it They're just genuine dyed-in-the-wool shit So any time you're doubtin' That what he's spoutin' Is really wisdom or wit... Oops! You're right! It's just a pile of bullshit!

Alas and alack! Some Florida fellow took my 54445 and I must now fling myself into the river, a disgrace to numerical palindromes! Farewell! Perhaps we will meet again on that distant shore of the vale from which no man returneth!

Nine posts later I'm still reeling from the beauty of that 54444 post of gnu's. And what a lucky shot - I hope you went out and bought a lottery ticket! BWL's palindrome right after was pretty good, but those four's have a lot of drag so they don't spin well. Put a few coats of polyurethane on it, that might help.